Somedays, when the days are so good, I cannot fathom coming here to spend one single second, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I kept it all for me and didn’t share and because I did that I also cannot come back here to see that good day in action when it has, inevitably, and once again, fallen down into the deep dark.

So here I am. Dark again. So dark I’m blind and dizzy.

I’m drunk with restrictions. Restrictions of all kinds. I’m ingest them fervently.

NO food, NO breath, NO light.

I am angry for my ability to say no to all that is supposed to be good. Because it seems like the only thing left to say no to. Because it gets twisted and contorted into some kind of goodness to say “no” to such things.

I had a dream that included my therapist (when I was still drunk and sleeping) last night. The first thing I heard this morning when I opened my eyes, “Wow, you really cussed “B” out last night.”) According to my husband it was pretty intense and so loud that I woke him up and I was saying “Fuck” a lot. Fuck. And my day has followed that kind of feeling pattern ever since.

My dream (or rather, hearing about my dream) left me feeling very vulnerable and unsafe and alone. I depend on the space of therapy for a lot of my stability right now. Therapy gives me my practice space in life. Therapy is where I can stand up and let go a little and maybe even take a few steps. Then I grab back on as I head out the door with the knowledge that I did let go and I can risk doing it again outside those doors.

But sometimes I fucking crash and land on my head. Hard. And it splits open and shit gushes EVERYWHERE.

Fuck.

And that’s the kind of day it has been. Except for I’m pretty much sure I didn’t let go of anything. I’m pretty sure all this gushing spewing out of me is because somebody to a baseball bat to my brain. There is not possible way this is of my own doing.

Bad day.

Really bad day.

Extremely bad day.

The kind of day I sit back at the end, now, and hope to God I’m going to wake up and my husband is going to tell me I had this really crazy, loud dream and it won’t be real.

But my husband is upstairs sleeping, and I am not.

Maybe you’re wondering why I was drunk last night?

It’s because I had to go to a (f-ing, I’m trying so hard not to cuss because I want to be a christian girl…and fuck me, why can’t I be like those ones who never swear?) It’s because I had to go to a lovely hoity-toity fundraiser where you can buy a table to sit and immerse yourself in bullshit and bad food for a measly few grand with my husband on the “invitation” of his boss who kindly suggested this might be where we should be on an otherwise lovely Saturday evening.

So I had to. I had to have the first, second, third and fourth glass of Merlot. Except for at the end when the Merlot ran out and they gave me Cab.

at least 400 calories wasted on miserable fundraiser people. And believe me, I like to raise money for a good cause and would never complain, but the cause was not for anything with soul or heart. It was for old money with tattoo’s in their ass crack who, therefore, had to walk around with their cheeks very tight together so nobody dare see.

I’m moody.

I think I’m pmsing.

And I think this is the worst day of my fucking life.

And I want to cuss out my therapist for no reason that I am aware of in my daily life, but I sure as hell want to tell him the fuck off!

Why?

Why why why why why.

This day and night is so bigly bad I can’t even get into it. This fucking little posting box is just pissing me off more because it cannot hold all that is inside me right now.

God, why didn’t I get to be a good girl?

I always wanted to be one of the ones that was sort of born that way. One of the ones that maybe forgot once and wore a skirt two mm above their knee and not all the way to the ankle. One of those girls who are soft and wholesome and don’t say fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck.